Promises
by Wanderer in the Night
Summary: 'Promise me you'll always remember' - The Gift of Men seemed like a curse to the Eldar who first witnessed it. But the deals they had made, the alliances they had forged and the friendships they had founded - gone. In a single season, a single day. For when Bëor the Old lay dead at Felagund's feet, only then did they realise the fault of their own immortality.


**Author's Note**

**- Even though this is partly inspired by the story of the friendship between Bëor and Finrod Felagund, it does not necessarily have to be them. This could happen to any Man and Elf. If you want to believe that it's Felagund and Bëor, you can - I don't.**

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><p><strong>Promises<strong>

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><p><em>Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.<em>

(A. A. Milne)

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><p>"No, you can't..." the Elf sobbed. "You can't, not now. Not like this."<p>

The stars circled slowly overhead, glittering in the dark of the night. The forest, usually alive with the songs of crickets and nightingales, was sorrowfully still and silent. Because on this most terrible of nights, the worst night of the Elf's life, his brother-in-arms and his best friend lay dying.

"I must," the Man replied, his voice weak with old age. "I shall go to my fathers now. Grieve; yes. But do not despair. I am sure that even if we cannot meet again in this world, I will break the doors of the Timeless Halls if I have to in just so I can find you again."

He laughed - not maliciously, but as one content with himself does.

"But why do you have to... D-die!?" the Elf screamed. "It's not fair!"

More sobs wracked the Eldar's body as he lay slumped over the Man's dying body. For fourteen-thousand years, the Elf had seen the seasons come and go; the ices freeze and melt; the stars supernova and reform anew. But never had he seen this.

"I give my life up... because I am... Human," the Man gasped. "And yes, it is not fair. But it is what will happen."

He grasped the Elf's pale, slender hand in his old calloused and wrinkled grip.

"And I ask you for one thing, and one thing only," the Man said.

"Anything! Anything!" the Elf wailed. "Ask it of me, and it shall be done!"

"Promise me you'll remember me. Because it will break my heart if no one does."

"Of course I will, _gwador_," the Elf said. "I will."

"Remember the first time I met you?" the Man asked. "I thought you were a god: so beautiful yet so broken at the same time. And the light in your eyes; on your face... It was fey - nay, holy! You played such music on that battered, old harp - I thought I must have been dreaming."

"And then you asked my name..."

"And you couldn't understand me," the Man laughed in reply.

The Elf nodded, his distraught, red eyes tearful with memories. The ache inside his heart felt like it would destroy him, but he needed to stay. Until the end.

"Please, though," the Man gasped finally after a moments silence between them. "Remember the fields and the meadows on the Talath Dirnen, how they swayed in the evening breeze. Remember how the ships from the Falas would sail round Barad Nimras and we would see the last light of the moon and the stars bouncing off the sea, lighting up the ships like candles in the dawn light."

He sighed.

"Please, _meldir_... Remember me. Because you are so much braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And don't let the Power in the North win. You can't let him win."

The Elf shuddered even as the Man said this.

"I have treasured every day with you. Every spring on the open waters, every summer in the glens. The dying of the trees and the falling of the snow. Every year, every season. Every single day. And I will. For ever more."

"And now..." he croaked. "I must go. Fare ye well, N..."

Before he could finish the sentence, he slipped into the deepest sleep, the Death-sleep as the healers called it. He was not yet dead, for his hands clasped together on his chest still rose and fell faintly. But he would not be able to awake. The Elf knew that.

So he stayed by the Man's side until the moon set, and the birds began to sing once again in the forest. And as the Sun rose once more over the Eastern Mountains, the Elf felt the breath and life go out of him; the spirit and soul linger momentarily over the body and the Elf that was slumped across him; and saw his body stop rising once and for all.

For he was dead.

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><p>The lands that whole day and night rang out with the wails and sobs of the lamenting Eldar, weeping for the loss of friend and ally. The Elf himself sat mournfully alone and silent, whilst the forest around him echoed with songs of sadness and grief.<p>

The battered, old harp lay by his feet, untuned and untouched. It was to be burnt alongside the Man later that day. But for the Elf, the semblance ran even deeper. He thought that he would not, could not ever bear to bring another note from himself sang or played.

Not out of joy or fear or sadness, nor grief or exultation, or even celebration of life, would he ever make music so fair as had done that fateful night in the greenwoods.

The Man, his vassal, servant and sworn-brother lay dead at his feet. First among the Fathers of Men

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>

**- _Gwador_ is Sindarin for 'sworn-brother'.**

**- _Meldir_ is the male Quenya version of 'friend'.**

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><p><strong>Please feel free to leave a review.<strong>


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